


Fresh Fish

by notjustmom



Series: What if... [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: For a case, John is John, Love at First Sight, M/M, Sherlock is a fishmonger, fluffff, fortysomething - Freeform, inspired kinda sorta by a Stephen Fry fishmonger, just something I needed to get out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 09:00:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7634077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Sherlock is a fishmonger(for a case, of course), and John his almost customer?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fresh Fish

One therapist had told him to keep a blog. She lasted an appointment and a half. One suggested he take up knitting; John left after ten minutes. The last told him his limp was psychosomatic and told him to get over himself. John was annoyed enough to sit in his office just to take up space for the last 47 minutes of his appointment, neither said a word. That was a month ago. For a month he had stared at his gray walls, ventured outside for food and that was about it. Finally, he'd had enough. It was May, and for once, it wasn't raining, so he got a shower, dressed and grabbed his cane. He took a step outside and breathed in the fresh air, it was still early morning, as he never slept, and he headed towards the open air markets. He almost smiled, remembering going to market with his mum, holding her hand and listening to her bargain with the stall owners.

"Fresh fish! Fressssssh fish!" 

John's ears perked up and he followed the voice. Hell, he'd follow that voice anywhere, up to and probably straight into hell. The voice got inside his head, and he was damned if anything would stop him from meeting the owner of that - oh. He was completely out of his league; dark, romantic curls, eyes the colour of the sea, bright and shimmery, lips...damn, full and almost beautiful, they would be downright kissable if not for the sardonic grin that danced upon them.

"Get your fresh fish - "

Sherlock stopped yelling as John limped towards him.

"Scallops. You want scallops, don't bother with anything else, a little butter, don't overcook them, you want fresh pasta, make a cream sauce to go with it. You can follow those directions, right? No, better yet, I'll make it, be at this address at 7 tonight, I'll cook, bring a nice bottle of white with you, dry, not sweet." John watched in stunned silence as he wrote down the address. 

"Sherlock Holmes. I'd shake hands, but you'd smell of fish for days."

"John Watson. Do you ask all of your customers to dinner?"

"NoPe. You are the first. Can't explain it at the moment, ask me again later." John shook his head and made his way through the market; bought a freshly baked scone and a decent cup of coffee and found a bench. He sat and waited to come to his senses. Hours later, he realised his senses wanted scallops in butter and cream sauce; most of all he wanted to hear that voice again, see if his eyes were really that blue, and have a shot at those lips. He looked at his watch, he had time to buy the bottle of wine and get a cab over to 221 B Baker Street, with minutes to spare.

The cab pulled up to a poshish door, with a polished, crooked knocker; and John wondered again what the hell he was doing, but he shook it off. He paid the cabbie, grabbed the bottle of wine, his cane, and made his way to the door. He pressed the buzzer and waited, then he banged on the door. An older lady in purple answered and eyed him suspiciously, then saw the wine and nodded. "He'll be ever so pleased. He told me all about you, but he didn't say how lovely you were -"

"MRS. HudSON!"

John's heart jumped into his throat. He had never believed that actually happened to people, now he understood.

"Go on up, just take yer time they are a bit creaky; and his bark is worse than his bite - don't take anything he says personally, not used to being around people, he is rather sweet once you get to know him."

"MRS -"

"Hold yer horses, he's on his way up. Breathe, dear."

"I AM breathing...sorry." Sherlock called down. John managed a smirk as he heard a deep breath in followed by an even longer exhale. Mrs. Hudson nodded at him and up he went.

John was about to knock when Sherlock opened the door; the scent of garlic, and fresh bread almost made him pass out, and then he looked at the man in front of him. Tight, dark purple shirt...aubergine, he would later find out, and trousers that managed to highlight every curve the fishmonger's apron had hidden from view.

"Wine? Oh, good, very good." Sherlock took the bottle and nodded at him, then tried a tentative smile, as if smiling was not a usual practice.

"Come, come in, please, make yourself at home." He went into the kitchen and John heard the noises he associated with someone who cooked with precision, but little joy. Maybe he could change that - 

"Skull, that's a real skull -"

"Friend. Uhm, closest thing to a friend."

John looked up, but Sherlock was focused on the stove, he was finishing the sauce as the noodles went into the water, the fresh, handmade noodles - damn.

"Anything I can do to help?"

"No, just, uhm, have a seat?" Sherlock indicated the set table, complete with flickering candles.

John sat for a few moments, mesmerised by the flames that danced in front of him.

Sherlock placed a plate of steaming pasta in front of him, and he closed his eyes, breathing in everything, trying to memorise it all.

"Afghanistan or Iraq? Damn."

"Hmmm?"

"Sorry, I can tell you served, just couldn't tell exactly where. None of my business, please, enjoy before it gets cold."

"You're not going to eat?"

"I never eat while I'm working on a case."

"A case? You're not a -"

"A what? A fishmonger? No." Sherlock smiled again, as he took a sip of wine. "This is very good."

John took a bite and sighed. "You have to have a bite, this is too good." He stretched across the table and popped a scallop into Sherlock's shocked mouth.

"Oh." Sherlock's eyes glittered at him and John almost dropped his fork. Yes, his eyes were that blue, and his lips looked just as soft as he had thought.

"Afghanistan."

"Hmmm?"

"You asked Afghanistan or Iraq."

"Right." Sherlock stole another scallop from his plate, and slowly lifted it to John's mouth. John's lips parted as he found himself staring into the eyes that seemed to have no end.

"Damn."

"Doctor...no...you were a surgeon, who can no longer hold a scalpel. The tremors, saw them today. You went to war because you wanted to..."

"Help." John looked down into his plate, wishing for something to swallow him whole.

"No, that's not all of it. You are a leader, a good one, you like rules, structure, the hierarchy and order of the military fit you perfectly. You were very good. More than that, you also loved the adventure of it, the chaos and riskiness of it, even though you weren't in real danger until that last day. When you lost everything - shit. I'm so sorry. I - I do this, don't know when to stop. I like to hear myself talk, because there isn't usually anyone else around to listen, except Billy up there, but as you might suspect, he's not a great conversationalist."

John laughed then, a sound he hadn't heard in months, a sound he wasn't sure he'd ever hear again. He laughed until the tears flowed down his cheeks and he knew that Sherlock would think he was at the very least unbalanced, if not certifiable. He sighed, wiped his eyes, then picked up his wineglass in his left hand without a single thought.

"Do you believe in fate, or do you believe everything just happens randomly, no reason behind it?" He muttered at Sherlock who was studying him closely as if examining a suspect. "I wasn't going to get out of bed today, I've been in bed for a month...you, this was your first day as a fishmonger. Your first and last."

Sherlock nodded. "I solved it, I knew I just needed to be where the murderer had been and I could prove how he did it. I had it solved right after you left. Wouldn't have been able to connect the dots completely without you. I, uhm...it's my first case back since -" He rolled up his sleeve and showed John the history that lived in the needle marks in his elbow. "To answer your question. I'm not sure if I believe in much of anything, honestly, but I know I believe in you. Would you mind terribly if I kissed you? I've wanted to since the moment I saw you."

John tried to speak, but decided against it, afraid of what might come out; he nodded instead.

Sherlock got up and walked around the table, then helped John from his chair and looked into his eyes. "It's been years since I've, uh..."

"Me too." John whispered. He reached up and pulled Sherlock's face a bit closer to his own and pressed his lips against the mouth he hadn't stopped thinking about all day.

There was silence, and then there was the sound of candles being blown out.

"What about dinner?" John asked once he had located his voice.

"I'll clean it up later. Right now, I need to know if you will stay." 

"Tonight?" John offered.

"Tonight and every night after for the next, oh, thirty, forty years, if we are so lucky."

John needed under a second to smile his "Oh, God. Yes."


End file.
